


no other pearl

by saaarebas



Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991)
Genre: Drugs, Friends to Lovers, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Roommates, Smoking, angst but come on you knew that, but I'm not, domestic fic, it's mopi, ongoing fic, you thought i was over it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2018-10-08 19:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10394091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saaarebas/pseuds/saaarebas
Summary: It's amazing how Scott can make the whole world shrink down to one dingy room in downtown Seattle.The domestic au that no one asked for, but I provided anyways.





	1. Chapter 1

Trains are soothing. The steady, endless movement, the stretch of the horizon past your window. Mike likes trains. There's something comforting about stepping out of the world in one place and stepping back in miles away. Being on a train is like being nowhere. Like airports, it’s a location that exists out of time and context. A pocket dimension in which all outside problems feel surreal. 

Mike’s quite familiar with the idea of checking out of life. 

As a narcoleptic, his life is a series of liminal places. Whenever he gets stressed, his brain takes him some place else. As a hustler, he’s accustomed to drifting. It’s common that he’ll fall asleep somewhere and wake up somewhere else. Whenever the business is bad or he gets bored of a city, Mike’s off like a tumbleweed in the wind. He floats until he finds a place, then soon after leaves again. 

This time, he’s leaving on account of Bob Pigeon. The king of the streets. In Portland, Bob holds court over all the other hustlers and homeless in the city. He’s fond of Mike, in his own strange way, but living around him is difficult. He’s a druggie and a thief, a vagabond and a liar. Which wouldn't have mattered if he wasn't so obnoxious about it. Mike's just tired of listening to the same far fetched stories that Bob’s always telling, is all. 

It’s just time to move onwards. He’ll come back to Portland, of course, it’s always been his home but right now Mike wants to be somewhere else. Which is why he’s bought a ticket to Seattle. 

He doesn’t have a lot of things, and what he does have fits neatly inside a backpack. He stuffs it by his feet and slides into the window seat. With the seat reclined all the way, and his jacket pulled up around his shoulders, it’s almost comfortable. Mike rests his head against the window and stares out at the platform as the train starts to move. 

There’s a noise beside him like someone clearing their throat, and Mike turns to see a boy around his age sliding into the seat beside him. He’s got long dark hair and a leather jacket. He’s also unreasonably attractive. “Hey,” the boy says jovially. “Cool jacket.”

Mike eyes him warily. The jacket in question is probably a decade old, an oversized red number that he found in a thrift store. “Thanks.”

“Where you going to?”

“Seattle,” says Mike, burrowing further into the warmth of his jacket. The boy nods. 

“Me too.” 

There's a beat of awkward silence. Then the boy slumps down in his seat and pulls out a book. Mike drifts off to sleep watching suburban Oregon roll by. 

 

It’s hot and sticky, the way summers often are in Idaho. He can feel the sun on his face, turning the inside of his eyelids a bright, vivid red. Calloused hands slide through his hair, and a gentle voice sings an old song about cowboys. “Mom?” he says softly. There’s something he needs to ask her but he can’t remember what. 

“Shh, baby,” she says, voice drifting in and out like smoke on the wind. “It’s alright. I know you’re sorry. I know you’re tired, but you have to wake up now.” Then she’s shaking him, and the dream is disintegrating around him, shattering into pieces of trees and car horns and scenery, and— 

Mike wakes up in someone’s arms. The face is familiar, dark hair haloed by light dappling through the trees. “Where am I?” 

“Seattle,” says the boy from the train cheerfully. “You fell asleep on the train.” 

“Oh.” It's not the first time that's happened, though before he'd always woken up to annoyed conductors. The place where trains go to sleep is not a pretty one. “You carried me off?”

The boy nods. “I live in the hope that the good I do will be repaid back to me one day in full. This is in case I fall asleep on a train someday.” He laughs, bright and clear. 

“Thanks.” 

“You're a heavy sleeper.” The boy adjusts his grip, and Mike realizes he's still lying in his arms. It's weirdly intimate, to be held like a lover by a person he just met. It makes him feel safe. It makes him feel bared open. 

Mike sits up and slides out of the boy’s arms. He stands up and the world shifts a little, then settles. “I’m narcoleptic,” he says distantly, trying to remember where he had his bag. As if reading his mind, the guy points to a knapsack on the ground. 

“Yours, right?” He stares at Mike for a moment, pondering. “I’m Scott.” 

“Mike,” says Mike. He picks up his knapsack again and shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s anxious to get going, find a rooftop to squat on before it gets too dark. “Thanks again.”

“Where're you headed to?”

He shrugs. Scott looks at him for a moment. His eyes are unsettling. He's one of those people who seem to see more of you than you ever wanted them to know. “You don't have anywhere to go to, do you?”

It's not strictly true. Mike knows a few people here. If he hangs around the seedy coffee shops and greasy food joints that line Pike Street long enough, he’ll find someone he knows. However, Scott doesn’t wait for an answer. “Come with me. Let me at least buy you some food.”

Mike considers. Scott’s younger than his average john. Much prettier too. Plus, he's not going to turn down free food right now. His stomach growls. “Okay.”

 

They go to a nearby Chinese restaurant that Mike remembers from the last time he was in Seattle. Mike slides into a booth, and watches Scott give the place a once over. He seems uncomfortable here, and Mike files that detail away for later perusal. 

Mike orders a Coke and an order of General Tsao’s. Scott just opts for a wonton soup and a black coffee. They're pretty quiet until the food comes, making stilted polite conversation. Mike learns that Scott's from Portland originally, that he's an only child, and that he's here “indefinitely”. He’s 19, an Aquarius, and he knows a frankly suspicious amount about Shakespeare. Most of this information is delivered via monologue: the conversation is pretty one sided, as Scott has a habit of going on long winded tangents peppered with quotes, odd phrases and facts about his life. It's annoying, but a little endearing. It also lets Mike focus on eating instead of talking, which suits him just fine. 

“So what about you?” says Scott finally. “From whence do you hail?”

Mike swallows a bite of chicken. “Um, Idaho, originally. But Portland is home, I guess.”

“How old are you?”

“18.” 

“What's your last name?”

“Uhh, Waters.”

They continue like that for a while, with Scott asking questions and Mike ignoring the ones he doesn't want to answer. Soon, Mike pushes his plate away. He watches Scott pull a cigarette out of a crumpled pack and light it. 

“Can I..?” asks Mike. He's dying for a smoke. Scott nods, and holds the cigarette out to him. 

They pass the smoke back and forth for a few minutes in silence. Scott just stares at him, brow furrowed like he's cataloguing and analyzing every detail of Mike. People don't usually pay that much attention to him. He fidgets under Scott's gaze. 

“Well,” says Scott finally. “It was nice talking with you.” He stands up and tosses a few bills onto the table. “I’ll see you around.” 

And with a gust of cold air and the tinkle of the bell on the door, he's gone. Mike stares at the space Scott had been sitting in and blinks. He'd better get going.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah it's been a year since I did anything for this fic so WHAT. This chapter honestly's been written since I posted the first part, I just had to edit a couple things. I can't promise a third chapter is gonna come but I figured I'd share what I have so far in case there's anyone still interested.

He doesn't see Scott again for two weeks. In that time, Mike’s managed to carve out a spot on the roof of an abandoned hotel. He has a little nest up there, a sleeping bag under a few sheets of tarp to protect from the wind and rain. 

Seattle’s good business. There's several strips that are well-known pickups, like Aurora, but Mike tends to stick to the more familiar locales of bus stations and street corners where it's quieter. He doesn't want to risk infringing on a pimp’s area, and besides, all the bustle and lights of a busy strip makes him more likely to conk right out. Anyways, he makes enough money to buy cigarettes and food and the more-than-occasional hit of coke. 

He's sitting in a coffee shop nibbling at a ginger cookie when a car pulls up outside. It's sleek and black, polished so well you can see the reflection of the sky in it. The door swings open and Scott bounces out, hair sticking up at all angles. A woman follows, rich and sumptuous in a white fur coat. He turns to go, but she pulls him back by the tie hanging loosely around his neck. They share a kiss that's almost obscene, then she releases him and slides back into the car. The door slams, and she's gone, with Scott blowing her one last extravagant kiss. 

Scott comes into the cafe, and slides easily into the booth across from Mike. “Hey,” he says. There's lipstick on his mouth, and traces of it disappearing below his collar. 

“Girlfriend?” says Mike. 

Scott shakes his head. “Client,” he says, patting his pockets absently. “Got a smoke?”

Mike nods. “We gotta smoke outside though.” Scott shrugs, so Mike grabs his jacket and heads for the door. 

There's a shout from the back. “Heeeey, Mikey, who’s the boy toy?” 

Mike flips off the speaker without looking. “Shut up, Gary.” They cross a little ways away from the door. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, then passes it to Scott. “So you’re...uh, um..”

“Hooking?” asks Scott delicately. “Yeah.” He takes a drag and lets the smoke billow out of his mouth. 

“Haven’t seen you around.” Not that he’s been looking. 

Scott shrugs. “It’s a big city. I probably hang out in other places.”

“Different clientele.” Mike shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It’s chilly outside. He shoves his hands in his pockets. 

Scott nods. “Though I do get guys sometimes. It’s good money.” He takes another drag. “It’s only when you do things for free that you grow wings.” 

“Wings?”

“And become a fairy, Mike.” His mocking tone twists something in Mike’s gut. Scott passes him back the smoke. “So, what’ve you been up to?”

Mike opens his mouth to answer, and then they’re interrupted by Gary and his gaggle of friends bursting out of the cafe. Gary’s got coffee spilled down his shirt and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He claps Mike on the shoulder. “Hey, got a light?”

He passes him the lighter, and the rest of the group light up as well, laughing and talking and chattering all at once. Scott gives him an exasperated look. “Can we get out of here?” he asks pointedly. 

Mike thinks for a moment. “Um. Sure. Come with me.” 

 

Mike’s feet lead them to the building he sleeps on, mostly on autopilot, although it’s one of the few places he can count on reliably to be alone. It’s an old hotel, long since boarded up. The sign on the front reads Hotel Gatewood in faded letters. Scott raises an eyebrow. “Booking a room? That’s presumptuous.” 

“It’s boarded up,” says Mike, even though that’s obvious. He’s pretty sure Scott is joking. They slink around the corner of the building, into a narrow alleyway that smells like garbage. There’s a fire escape leading up to the roof, positioned conveniently above an old futon with the stuffing ripped out. 

“Sick.” says Scott. He leaps onto the back of the couch and reaches up for the bottom of the fire escape. He yanks himself up in one easy movement, shirt catching on the edge of the stair. Mike can see a stretch of smooth, tanned back where the fabric rides up. “Coming?” Scott brushes his hands off on his tattered jeans and fluffs up his hair. 

Mike follows him up the fire escape. They get to the roof in a matter of minutes. It’s a flat plateau up here, a landscape broken up only by the occasional chimney. Mike’s got a blanket and a tarp set up behind one of them, far enough away from the edge that he can’t roll of. He sits on the edge of his blanket and lights up a cigarette, watching Scott pace back and forth like a restless cat. 

It’s cold up here. The wind plays with the ember on the end of Mike’s cigarette, making it flicker and duck like it’s about to go out. He huddles further into the relative shelter of the tarp. It must rustle or something, because when he does, Scott whirls around. “You sleep here?” he says suddenly. 

“...Yes.” says Mike slowly. The way Scott says it, it’s like there’s a wrong answer or something.

Scott stares at him, at the ratty blanket beneath him, at the plastic sheet above him. He frowns. “It’s cold.”

Mike nods. “Yeah.” 

“You must be cold.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t….have anywhere else to go?” 

Mike laughs, smoke curling out of his mouth in short, sharp bursts. “No. No. Would I be here if I did? Giving up a real bed somewhere for the five-star view.” 

“It’s a nice view,” says Scott absently. He fixes his strange dark eyes on Mike. “Come home with me, Mike.” 

There’s a small burst of sparks when Mike’s cigarette hits the rooftop. His mouth is probably hanging open a little, but is it his fault? Scott is beautiful, unearthly beautiful, and also straight, and too poor to buy a hustler even if he wanted to. 

“—too cold to survive out here,” Scott’s saying, hands waving as he talks. “You can sleep on my couch for a while, if you want, until it warms up. It’ll be fun.” 

And, oh. Oh. Suddenly a great many things make a great deal more sense. Scott’s concerned about him. Less shocking than what Mike had first thought, but still surprising enough to leave him wrong-footed. “I...Why? Or, I mean, like, what’s–what do you get out of it?”

Scott stares at him. The side of his mouth quirks up into a sardonic little smile. “Do I have to get anything out of it?” When Mike just stares at him, he shrugs. “It’ll be fun.” 

 

Scott lives in a three story walkup on the top floor. His building is flanked by a laundromat and a cafe where hungover university students sit staring at their textbooks. 

Inside, the apartment is nicer than Mike expected. It’s certainly nicer than anything the average hustler could afford. Another incongruous fact for the growing file in his brain labeled Scott Favor. There’s a balcony and a kitchen and a whole separate room just for meals. “It’s like a magazine,” says Mike, running his fingers across the smooth stone countertop. Scott just shrugs. 

He shows Mike the bathroom, and the living room with the couch he’ll be sleeping on. “Mi casa es su casa,” says Scott grandly. Mike perches on the edge of the cushion like it might hurt him. Scott disappears into the hallway and returns with blankets, which he deposits beside Mike. 

“Thanks,” says Mike. The apartment smells like cleaning fluid. It’s pristine, almost clinical in its cleanliness. There’s a watercolour of lilies hanging on the wall, the kind of print a hotel would buy to class up its decor. It’s not the kind of painting a teenage hustler would buy. Something unwinds a little in Mike’s mind. “Can I see your room?”

“No,” says Scott. “A boy’s room is private. What was it Shakespeare said? ‘The bed is a window to the soul’?” 

Mike laughs. He’s pretty sure that’s not it. “Okay.”

 

Living with Scott is good, mostly. They’re both out, most of the time, tricking or stealing or hanging with friends. Weirdly, Scott’s become fast friends with Gary, the two of them getting into all sorts of mischief. Some nights, Mike comes home to crash and the house is dark and quiet. Others, he comes in and there’s jazz playing from an old beat up radio. Scott will have brought takeout home, and they’ll eat it out of the plastic containers right there on the marble kitchen floor. 

Mike learns about Scott’s father. He catalogues the way Scott’s mouth tightens when something reminds him of his other life. It explains a lot; why Scott was so uncomfortable around the other street kids, why he lives in such a nice apartment that no hustler could afford. Scott drops cryptic bits of information in conversation, which Mike can put together enough to form a larger picture. The unhappy home life, the dead mom. The crippling loneliness Scott must have felt, all alone in that big, cold house. Scott won’t say any of this though, and Mike won’t push him.

They’re not that different, the two of them. Moms are gone, dads are...complicated. Mike shares bits of his life too, awkward and halting. He tells Scott about the institution, about his mom packing up and leaving one day with no explanation. About how he cried for months thinking it was his fault. Mike doesn’t mention Dick. He figures that can come later, if it has to. 

Mike went into Scott’s room once, when he was out. It was like a room from a catalogue, the linens crisp and white, the furniture bleak. There was a portrait on the bedside table. A stern old man with Scott’s nose, arm around a pretty Native American woman in a wedding dress. The rest of the room was bare, empty. It reminded Mike of the hotel rooms his clients would sometimes bring him to— universal and bland. He crept out as quietly as he came in, inexplicably feeling that he had seen something he wasn’t supposed to. 

It’s not all good, of course. There are days where Scott comes home smelling like sex, his hair still tousled from where whoever he fucked grabbed it. There’s the times when he showers and forgets to close the door, and from his perch on the couch, Mike can see the curve of his back or the stretch of an arm through the curtains. Even worse, there’s the days Mike passes out during a gig or on some street corner. Inevitably, he wakes up cradled in Scott’s arms. 

He doesn’t mean to fall in love with Scott. It just happens.


End file.
